My Accidental Sugar Daddy Read online

  I could kill him. I could strangle him right here. In fact, I could do a dramatic reveal and tell him that I’m actually Laurelin Saint, his friend’s little sister. That would be a shock, wouldn’t it? It would be even better if I made a grand exit, swooshing my ball gown behind me, as if I’m too good for the likes of him.

  So why am I still sitting here, staring at Tate Connor’s gorgeous mien?

  Boredom. It’s that again. Boredom with my life, with my situation, with how so little seems to matter. Maybe it’s time to do something risky, and something my family wouldn’t approve of. Maybe it’s time to be the rebel. It’s not like I’m really homeless--if this arrangement goes south, I’ll have somewhere to go, and people who will take care of me. Hell, I can easily pay for a year of therapy afterwards, if I get mentally twisted from the experience.

  So I stare at Tate Connor. He doesn’t seem like a bad guy. A cocky asshole, yes. But not someone who’s doing this to exploit, or shame, or mortify a defenseless woman. He’s doing this, I can already tell, purely for the animalistic need of it. Because’s attracted to me and because he wants my body.

  Deep in the pit of my stomach, something unfurls. The tendrils coil around my pelvis and my thighs clench as I look at him with half-shock, half-desire.

  Then I swallow, hard.

  “Cat got your tongue?” Tate asks, smirking a bit. I want to slap him but maintain my composure.

  I shake my head slowly, putting my spoon down. “You’re lucky I’m not calling the cops on you.”

  “For what? Offering you shelter in a safe, beautiful home? Promising you three meals a day and all the free time you want?” He shrugs, unconcerned. “I’m not trying to take advantage of you, Laurie. I’m offering you something that could be very enjoyable for the both of us. Don’t you agree? You’d get a warm, safe place to live, and I’d get a way to release myself in the arms of beautiful woman as much as I want. It’s a fair trade.”

  I cross my arms, feeling stubborn despite myself. “You know what? You’re a sick-o.”

  He raises a single brow. “Really? But think of all the women who stay home while their husbands go out to work. Is that trade-off really any different from what I’m offering? Without the wedding ring, of course,” he adds easily.

  My mouth dries, and I’m unable to speak. There’s some truth to his words because a stay-at-home wife provides domestic comfort for her husband as he goes out to earn a living to support the household. It’s as if Tate can read my mind, and a smile quirks the corner of those knowing lips.

  “That’s what I thought. We’re attracted to each other, Laurie, so why not? We can help each other, and be there for each other. Trust me, I’m not proposing a romantic relationship by any means because I don’t have time for that, nor am I interested in that. It’ll just be sex.” When I don’t respond, he continues, “I realize that this is an untraditional proposition, but again, is it really that strange? Are traditional relationships really that different from what I’m offering?”

  I have to jump in.

  “Yes, because traditional relationships are based on love.”

  Tate looks thoughtful.

  “Ah, I see you’re a romantic. Well, I have to be honest, Laurie, but that’s not on the table. No love. Only sex. I’m sorry, honey, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

  “No, I’m not!” I say quickly. “We don’t even know each other.”

  Tate smiles knowingly.

  “Then we’re on the same page, aren’t we? We’re in New York City, sweetheart. Trust me, what we’re doing isn’t bizarre or dirty or bad in any way. Stranger arrangements happen every day.”

  Don’t do it, a part of my mind yells. Leave now and don’t come back.

  But a different voice is whispering, Give it a try. Why not? What do you have to lose?

  I jerk, surprised at myself. I could lose my sanity! I could catch an STD from this guy and his corrupt ways! But to my surprise, my voice answers on its own.

  “Okay,” I say simply.

  Tate blinks, looking amused. “That’s it?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Fine. I’ll do it. I’ll try it. But how long will this arrangement last?”

  The handsome man shrugs with a smile.

  “You’re free to leave at any time,” he says. “It’s completely consensual, sweetheart. I don’t need to beg women to get in my bed.”

  Then, he stands and whisks our empty soup bowls away, whistling jauntily like this is totally normal. My heart feels like it’s going to pound out of my chest, and I suddenly realize that my hands are trembling. Am I making an idiotic mistake? What if someone who knows us finds out? My brother would be enraged, not to mention disgusted.

  But again, that flame of desire has begun to curl in my pelvis, and as I watch Tate’s muscular back move, my mouth goes dry. What if I love every minute of being with this man? What if he fucks me senseless twice a day, and I can’t get enough? Because that’s what it would be: pure sex, and not love.

  But sometimes a girl needs a thorough bang, and when I look up, Tate’s watching me like a predator stalking its prey. Those blue eyes are intense, his jaw firm, and suddenly I realize just how male he is. But when he speaks, his voice is deceptively light.

  “Good Laurie,” he says. “I’m glad you said yes, because we’ll start tonight.”

  I blink startled. Tonight? But then a warm wave washes over me and my thighs clench again. The truth is that I can’t wait for a night of pleasure in his arms.

  5

  Laurelin

  * * *

  With shaking fingers, I look at myself in the mirror. I’m clad in nothing but my lacy bra and panties, and they don’t hide much. These will be fine, right?

  After all, Tate probably romances supermodels and socialites groomed to within an inch of their lives. And yet, here I am. Thank god my lingerie is decent. I like wearing dainty, pretty underthings because they give me a shot of confidence, even if on the outside I’m clad in plain jeans and a sweater. But is it okay? Am I sexy enough for the gorgeous billionaire?

  Critically, I look at myself in the mirror and fluff out my blonde strands. After we struck our deal, Tate led me upstairs to a spacious suite on the second floor, decorated in creamy whites and pale blues. The bed is a soft, enormous four-poster; a huge antique wardrobe dominates the east wall; and even more surprising, it’s full of fluffy white robes. “For guests,” Tate said with a wink. I can imagine he has plenty of those--female ones, to be specific.

  But I can’t be judging him, seeing that I said yes to this dirty deal. As a result, I merely shrugged and smiled as he left me alone to get ready. Now, I’ve showered, and it felt really good. After all, my apartment with Rachel doesn’t always have hot water, and sometimes the water runs rust-brown for a couple of minutes, which is really gross. By contrast, this suite boasts a luxury rainshower and, beside it, a porcelain clawfoot tub that could fit a giant (or two). I may have stayed in the shower for a tad longer than necessary, but hey, I’m not the one paying the water bill.

  With a guilty pang, I realize that I haven’t told Rachel where I am yet. She’ll be expecting me home soon to feed Toodles, and will be irate at being stuck with my cat for so long on her own. I’m so sorry, Toodles, I think, hoping he’ll hear me through some pet-owner telepathy. Rach will take good care of you for a few days, until the spell wears off and I come to my senses. You like her, remember?

  I grab my phone from my jeans pocket and text my roomie. Hey, lady! I’m staying at Channing’s for a few days to plan a charity ball (gag). Do you mind watching Toodles? I’ll Venmo you some money.

  Almost immediately, she replies, Keep your damn money. Just steal some good booze from your brother’s stash and bring it home to me.

  I laugh. Rachel is a midwife, and while she loves her job, she definitely appreciates a strong drink after some of her shifts. Will do, I respond. Feeling especially guilty, I stash my phone in the nightstand beside the bed. Hmm, this is another problem.
I have the newest iPhone with an expensive case, so how will I explain that? I’ll try to keep it out of sight, so it doesn’t raise any suspicions. Or I could say I stole it, but the lie curdles on my tongue. Damn, this is getting to be more complicated than I thought.

  Plus, I can’t believe that Tate wants me to wear nothing but lingerie when I’m in his house. My jaw practically dropped to the floor when he stated his condition.

  “Excuse me?” I stammered.

  The handsome billionaire merely shrugged like it was no big deal.

  “I appreciate women’s bodies, and you have a delectably curvy one, sweetheart. I’d like to see you in nothing but the tiniest scraps of lace, if possible.”

  My mouth snapped shut then as my eyes bugged out. This guy really is a perverted asshole! But the thing is that I was turned on by the idea. I’ve never been so naughty before, and the idea of prancing around in front of the handsome man wearing nothing but the tiniest bits of lace titillates my imagination. As a result, here I am now, clad in nothing but bits of silk that barely hide my assets. Hell, they don’t hide my assets. I know my nipples are shadowy beneath the white fabric, and the vee of my pussy lips is outlined by the tight material of my panties.

  Suddenly cowardice overcomes me, and I hurry to the armoire before selecting a fluffy white robe to put on. As soon as I sling it around my shoulders, I’m comforted. There, that’s not so bad anymore. I fasten the sash tightly around my waist, taking a deep breath. I will survive. I can do this. I can be the wanton woman Tate wants, and still come out with my sanity intact.

  As I exit my room and walk slowly down the grand staircase, I make a promise to myself: I’ll leave if it gets too crazy. If Tate actually makes me do insane things like tying me to a bed, or spanking my bottom until it’s red, I’ll march out with my head held high. But then a flush graces my cheeks because the imagery is turning me on, and I realize I am well and truly losing it. I want those things? I want to do these dirty, nasty things with the handsome man? It’s true, and the knowledge makes me flush a bright red.

  Then, I reach the bottom of the stairs and the breath flies from my chest because Tate’s standing there waiting for me wearing black jeans and a black shirt, looking ungodly handsome. I try not to blush when I realize how little I have on under my robe.

  “Hi,” I say in a near whisper.

  He smiles wolfishly before leaning forward to kiss my cheek. His lips trail over my skin, and my temperature zips up about ten degrees.

  “Hi yourself, honey. You look beautiful.”

  I flush while pulling the robe tighter around my waist.

  “I don’t have anything else to put on at the moment.”

  He smiles.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he says. “We’ll get you some nice lingerie to relax in. In the meantime, you’re dressed perfectly because we’re going to have a picnic.”

  My raised brows must communicate my confusion because Tate clarifies, “An indoor picnic, sweetheart. Follow me.”

  He turns, gently grasping my elbow, and escorts me into a room off to the side.

  When I enter, I gasp. This sitting room has an enormous fireplace, already sparkling and crackling as we approach. A black bearskin rug lies on the floor, and surprisingly, the roaring head doesn’t freak me out. The walls are lined with bookshelves, and two comfortable-looking leather chairs are arranged before the fire. It’s a room that my father would like, strong and masculine. But with Tate’s presence, and in the ever-shifting light of the fire, it feels intimate and downright very sexy.

  “Come here, sweetheart,” the billionaire growls, as he takes a seat on the bearskin rug. I notice a large picnic basket in front of him, and lower myself as well, feeling uncharacteristically shy. How exactly is this “arrangement” going to start--and when?

  But now, it looks like we’re going to eat. Out of the picnic basket, Tate produces two plates and two wine glasses, and then, like a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, he withdraws a lavish charcuterie plate and a bottle of red wine. My eyes flicker to the bottle’s label. Sure enough, like everything else in this house, it’s expensive. Admittedly, I haven’t tasted wine more pricey than a twist-off bottom-shelf bottle for a while.

  “Do you prefer white or red?” he growls.

  “Red,” I say quickly.

  Tate smiles, and there’s that wolfishness again, or maybe it’s just the firelight casting shadows on his handsome, planed face. “Good.”

  He pours wine into my glass, and then his own, and gestures at the charcuterie board. “Sweetheart, help yourself.” The board is graced with a variety of dried meats and cheeses, some perfectly-ripe strawberries, handfuls of macadamia nuts, beautifully jewel-toned figs, and what appear to be hand-dipped chocolate-covered pretzels. Eagerly, I place a variety of foods onto my plate.

  “Hungry much?”

  I flush red, and immediately the handsome man looks contrite.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he apologizes. “Sometimes I forget you’re from the street. Have as much as you want.”

  I nod, ducking my head. OMG, I should tell him the truth because this charade is getting really crazy, but somehow, nothing comes from my throat. Then, when I turn back to Tate, he selects a strawberry from the board and without breaking eye contact, brings the berry to my mouth. Obediently, I bite into it and a sweet nectar spills over my taste buds, making me moan deliriously.

  When I open my eyes again, he’s watching me avidly.

  “Sweetheart, I never knew a woman could look like that while eating.”

  I flush again.

  “Strawberries are good,” I say in a shy voice. “Why, did I do something weird?”

  His blue eyes glitter. “No honey, not at all. You’re just a very sensual woman when you part your lips.”

  That’s when I notice a very prominent bulge at his crotch and my nipples tighten in response. But I have to get a hold of myself. I don’t want to throw myself at him like some desperate woman. Hastily, I eat some cheese, probably looking like a pig snarfling up her slops. But hey, anything to get my eyes off of that huge tent in his pants that’s making me so hot.

  When I grab my wine glass, I take a long sip, tilting my head back and sure enough, when I look at Tate again, he’s watching me ravenously. Uh oh, I may have overplayed my hand. But then he takes a deep breath and fixes me with those deep blue eyes.

  “Laurie, how did someone as beautiful as you end up on the streets?” he asks in a direct tone.

  I panic a little. I haven’t thought of my backstory yet. But I can certainly hide my indecision with solid common sense.

  “Unfortunately, beauty doesn’t save someone from homelessness,” I say in a quiet voice. “Nor intelligence, nor any other factor. Anyone could become homeless. Even you.”

  “Even me,” Tate agrees smoothly. “Medical debt, not to mention credit card debt, are very real things. But I seem to be asking all the wrong questions. Let me try something else. How long have you been in New York?”

  I pause for a moment. Should I lie? But then I decide not to.

  “My whole life,” I answer truthfully. “What about you?”

  He grins.

  “Same,” he says. “I grew up in Ithaca and then went to Columbia for business school.”

  I know, I think, because my brother did, too.

  “So what do you do?” I ask.

  He grins. “That’s a very NYC question, but I make electric cars actually. Very fascinating stuff and very boring shit at the same time. It depends on the day. But I love it. Are you interested in cars?”

  I shake my head.

  “No, but my brother’s always really been into his rides.” Immediately, I wince--I shouldn’t have mentioned having a brother.

  Tate raises a brow. “Is your brother in New York?”

  “Um,” I say, and stare at the charcuterie board, trying to decide what to say. “No. Not anymore.”

  “Ah.” Tate takes a sip of his wine, and I do the sa
me, hoping that the implication of a tragic backstory gets him to change the subject. Thankfully, he does.

  We chat as we eat, circling back to art and segueing into sports and books. Tate is an Eagles fan because his dad is from Philly; I, like a good New Yorker, have always rooted for the Giants, and we rib each other good-naturedly. I feel myself getting warm, sitting next to the fire while drinking my third glass of wine, and unconsciously wipe my hand across my brow.

  “Hot?” Tate asks, and I nod.

  “A little.”

  “Me, too,” he growls. Before I’m entirely ready for it, he stands up and pulls his shirt over his head, revealing acres of bronzed skin and those washboard abs yet again. My mouth literally goes dry at the sight of this gorgeous god. Then, to my surprise, he unbuckles his belt and lets his pants fall. That’s when my jaw drops. What is he doing?

  But with a devilish grin, soon Tate’s clad only in a pair of black boxer shorts. Tight black boxer shorts, I should add. And it doesn’t help that his package is still semi-erect and very large.

  “What are you doing?” I ask hoarsely.

  “Just getting comfortable,” he drawls lazily. “Didn’t you say you were hot too? Why don’t you take that robe off?”

  I stare at him as a pink flush crawls over my cheeks.

  “I’m sorry?”

  But Tate acts like nothing’s amiss.

  “Take it off,” he says with a grin. “You’ll feel better, I promise honey.”

  Oh my god, this is such a dirty scenario, yet before I realize it, my fingers are loosening the belt to my robe, and slowly, the terrycloth slides down my shoulders. Unable to make eye contact, I pull open the vee, revealing my (thankfully matching) pale pink panties and bra. My nipples are jutting against the thin fabric, and a shadowy patch peeps from between my thighs. I hope he can’t see because it’s quite dim in the sitting room, but from the way his blue eyes flare, I know he does.

  I watch Tate watch me.

  “Have some more strawberries,” he says, rather abruptly.

  Then, Tate takes a strawberry, pushes the nearly-empty board aside, and kneels in front of me. When I don’t protest (because I’m too busy screaming what am I doing?! in my head) he lightly takes my chin in one hand, and dangles the fruit in front of my mouth with the other.